The Drabble Bin
by KLMeri
Summary: Another drabble series of short, inspired ficlets which have no proper home. Gen, slash, AOS, TOS, etc. Mainly focused on Kirk, Spock, and McCoy.
1. Those Neighborhood Hoodlums

**This certainly isn't the first drabble series I have created! :)**

**Over the past few weeks, I have been suffering bouts of writer's block. These scenes - whether AOS or TOS or however you see fit to imagine them - are short bursts of creative writing to help entice my muse back into action. In order to conserve story space, especially for those fics which deserve to shine in their own right, I am collecting the small bits and pieces of inspired writing here!**

**Some are slash; some are gen. There will be appropriate headers to delineate between the drabbles.**

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><p><strong>Title<strong>: Those Neighborhood Hoodlums  
><strong>Author<strong>: klmeri  
><strong>Fandom<strong>: Star Trek AOS  
><strong>Pairing<strong>: Kirk/McCoy  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Inspired by the famous picture floating around the 'Net where Karl is leaning sexily against a car.

* * *

><p>"Here, boy! Take this!"<p>

Jim is startled by an old lady shoving her walker against his leg. "Um..." he tries to ask politely, "do you need help?" No one else is paying attention as they enter the supermarket. And ignoring an elderly person will make him look like an ass. Not the best way to start his day.

"No, no!" she insists, rattling the top bar of the walker for emphasis. "That's for the hoodlum!"

He bites his lip and does a slow visual scan of the parking lot. "Is someone bothering you?" Crap, why did he leave the apartment? It doesn't pay to deal with cranky old women before a cup of coffee.

She jabs a bony finger in a direction and, having let go of her support, wobbles precariously. Jim offers his arm for the old lady to cling to, which she does with a bit too much enthusiasm, and he has to wonder how hard it will be to detach her later on.

The woman, ignoring her new acquaintance's long-suffering pout, hisses and proclaims quite loudly for a person of such tiny stature, "Boy, there's a hoodlum on your car!"

Jim immediately seeks out his beloved vehicle (he'll fend off the worst kind of miscreants to protect his baby) and, upon sighting the 'hoodlum', relaxes. Behind his dark shades, his eyes crinkle at the corners with amusement.

"Oh, that's Bones," he says. The lady opens her mouth and, fearful of what might come out of it, he hastily adds, "My boyfriend."

She gives him a sharp look then wraps one of her hands around her walker and jerks it away from Jim. "Well, I don't like the look of 'im," she complains. "A handsome boy like you can do better 'n a hoodlum."

He can't help but chuckle. "Bones isn't a hoodlum, ma'am. He's a medical student."

"_Hmph!_" But, disagreement or not, she is already turning away and making a steady pace for the automatic doors of the store. Her last piece of advice is shrill enough to carry into the market and warn the employees to hide. "You best get that man off your car, boy, and teach 'im some decent posture. Ain't nobody gonna see a slouching doctor!"

He happens to think otherwise; after all, the jut of Bones' hips might bring in more soccer moms than one medical practice can handle.

Sliding his sunglasses down his nose, Jim strolls over to the frowning Bones, swinging his small plastic bag of morning bagels (and maybe a donut or two). "I told you to stay in the car," he says, by which he means in Jim-lingo: _hello there, gorgeous_.

Bones rolls his eyes in Jim's direction. "'S hot in the car. What'd that old lady want?"

"Nothing," he says. "She just thought she saw somebody suspicious."

His boyfriend tugs open the passenger door with an ungentle hand. "She probably did. This isn't the best neighborhood. People'd sooner jack a car than take a bus."

Oh, such a perfect opening. Jim waggles his eyebrows. "You can jack my car any time, Bones."

Bones shoots him an un-amused look over the red-painted hood. "Get in the car, Jim. I need to be at work by 10."

Some people just don't appreciate his jokes. But that's okay because Jim knows he has something else everyone can appreciate.

And that something is already complaining about the over-heated leather upholstery of Jim's car.

Coffee, Kirk decides as he turns his key in the ignition and the engine's roar quiets to a purr. Coffee and a sprinkled donut and no old ladies calling attention to his pretty-mouthed boyfriend. Then today might be a good day.

Now how to convince Bones of that?


	2. Trapped

**Title**: Trapped  
><strong>Author<strong>: klmeri  
><strong>Fandom<strong>: Star Trek TOS  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Riley, others  
><strong>Summary<strong>: This is a drabble/snapshot of the dangers of a Starfleet officer's mission.

* * *

><p>High above, the last ember of sunlight gutters into darkness, and silence descends. A small group of people breathe in hushed, nervous tones, their backs to the cavern's wall as they listen for sounds of movements beyond the small niche of rock sheltering them. They hear nothing.<p>

At last one of them stirs, his fingers seeking out a device to tentatively lift its cover. It emits a _beep _and a fizzling wave of static.

"_Captain,_" the man holding the communicator whispers. "_Riley to Capt'n Kirk. Hello?_"

For a moment there is no response; then the static crackles and half-formed words filter in and out, sharp barks of a familiar but muted voice. "—ca—ear—ley! Can you—_port!_—"

The young officer tightens his grip on the device. He tries his level best not to sound as panicked as he feels. "Captain, we're—" _trapped _"—in a network of tunnels, no more than five meters beneath the surface." But it still had been a significant distance to fall when his grip slipped from the lattice-work of roots on the climb down.

He fumbles for information of their locale, wishing their only tricorder hadn't broken under him when he landed. "Last coordinates—"

The pale-faced geologist murmurs a number.

"—45:26:40N. There was—_is_ something out there, sir," he emphasizes with a shudder in his voice. _It snatched a man off his feet_, he doesn't say —a junior lieutenant and one of his friends, whom Riley cannot bear to think about because if he allows himself, he can hear echoes of his friend's screaming reverberating through the silence of this godforsaken hole in the ground, a mistake they made when they had recklessly decided to hide.

He keeps talking, forcing out words like _campsite ambushed_ and _no supplies_ and _two injured officers. _"We need help—send help, I repeat, send help!"

Belatedly Riley realizes the connection to the outside world has long since faded away; he has been begging for rescue from a dead communicator. The device slips from his bruised fingers into his lap, and he doesn't bother to pick it up again. Head bowed, he faintly hopes the unruly flop of his hair hides his fear from the others.

A warm hand presses against his thigh. "Kevin, are you okay?"

He briefly covers the small hand with his own, grateful to have the comfort of physical contact with another person, and huffs out a tiny laugh for the anxious woman crouched beside him. "Yeah, yeah I am, Lizza. It's all right," he adds with almost too much bravado. "The Captain will find us."

"I know he will," she replies in soft tones. The smile trembling at the corners of her mouth is painful to look upon, so Riley closes his eyes.

Her grip moves from his thigh to his shoulder, hard now. "But don't fall asleep, please. I think you're concussed."

Riley has senior rank among the four of them. He couldn't fall asleep if he wanted to, concussion or no concussion. He's _responsible _now, even for young Lt. Harris, who is propped between Riley and the geologist and slowly bleeding from an abdominal wound made by voracious claws. Harris will die first, Riley thinks hollowly, and even that is his responsibility.

He gropes blindly for the communicator in his lap then opens his eyes as he twists the dial, though it does nothing to clear the channel. Then Riley begins again, "Lt. Riley to Capt—to _anyone_—this is Kevin Riley, I repeat, Kevin Riley of the USS Enterprise—"


	3. A Cage of His Own

**Title**: A Cage of His Own  
><strong>Author<strong>: klmeri  
><strong>Fandom<strong>: Star Trek AOS  
><strong>Characters<strong>: McCoy  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: potential trigger-y mentions of domestic abuse  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Leonard cannot free himself. Drabble, AU-ish.

* * *

><p>He thought he was free the moment he left Georgia. Had Leonard known then his destiny was simply an exchange of cages, he would have remained trapped within a miserable existence in the sultry heat of Atlanta, navigating the treacherous balance between duty and family politics as the next male puppet-heir to the McCoy lineage. As it stands, he did escape—both from the iron fist of his tyrannical, cold-hearted bastard of a grandfather and an arranged marriage—but walked straight into a new orbit of brutality, one far more cruel and far less forgiving than what he left behind.<p>

This he contemplates as his fingers trail over the purpling bruises painted across his ribcage. The brutality's face is beautiful, coldly so; its temper, vicious. The brutality is a man not unlike Leonard but, as he discovered within the first few months of their meeting, also a beast at heart.

And Leonard loves him, despite all.

That is, perhaps, the knowledge which hurts him most: his cage is his feelings. Day after day, he adds another layer of bars to it, another steadfast lock, when he leans into the chest of his lover and says "I love you. I forgive you."

A shirt, coupled with Leonard's long-cultivated control of his body's responses, will hide his physical pain. But what he has done to himself, this emotional hurt rooted in his heart, cannot be hidden so well.

People say to him:

"If you leave him..."

"If you'll just save yourself..."

He replies "I can't" and means it.

Love simply won't let him choose otherwise.


	4. The Old Four

**These four are actually old "unfinished" drabbles but that means in my lingo "never to be finished". :/ **

* * *

><p><strong>I.<strong>

**Fandom: **Star Trek TOS or AOS  
><strong>Characters: <strong>unnamed Vulcan

"Lie."

"False truth."

"A conundrum," the aging professor clarifies.

There is a murmur through the young audience. Some cadets are unsettled; some are tickled by the word 'conundrum.'

"But, sir," wonders a fresh-faced cadet sitting midway up the auditorium, "I thought Vulcans can't lie."

The man smiles. "Vulcans are creatures of truth; that is correct, young man. However, imagine yourself in a situation—life or death—that requires you to break a principle to which your culture adheres most strictly."

The murmur grows to talking, to conversation and protest.

"Imagine it is not your own life at stake, but that of a friend—or lover." Silence falls.

"Tell us the story," another one says.

So he does.

* * *

><p><strong>II.<strong>

**Fandom: **Star Trek TOS or AOS Mirrorverse  
><strong>Characters: <strong>Kirk

"So you thought you'd dump a load of Praxis shellfish into my dinner and I wouldn't notice? …That my yeoman—who receives an hour in the agonizer booth for any mishaps with my meals—wouldn't notice?"

"Yes, Sir," The Romulan hangs his head.

Kirk turns to his First Officer. "I'm shocked at this Romulan's stupidity. Aren't your people competent enough to tackle an assassination?"

"I am Vulcan."

"Irrelevant, since Romulans and Vulcans share a common ancestry."

Spock takes the insult with little comment of his own, as always. Kirk cannot decide if his First Officer keeps silent out of caution, or if the Vulcan truly cares little for Kirk's thoughts and opinions.

That Spock can follow orders is his only redeeming quality.

Unlike this foolish alien. The kind of half-assed stunt with which the spy attempted to kill a starship captain truly disgusts Kirk. He'd previously considered the Romulans to be a step above the scheming Orion slave traders… and well above the Klingons. They are steadily losing rank on Kirk's scale of respect for his enemies.

"Remove the flesh from his fingers, McCoy. Slowly."

The CMO shrugs and begins laying out the tools of his oft-barbaric trade.

As Kirk spins away, he tells the Vulcan, "Perhaps you should stay and watch, Mr. Spock. Take careful notes on how the Enterprise handles touch-telepathic nuisances." The words _such as yourself _are unspoken but left hanging in the air at Kirk's departure.

* * *

><p><strong>III.<strong>

**Fandom**: Star Trek AOS  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Kirk, McCoy

"I need you, Bones. I can't—I can't do this without you."

The man looks like he is sleeping but Kirk knows better.

"And I'm sorry that I didn't l-listen. Oh God, if only I'd listened to you!"

Eyes open, a dark shade of green; they slowly, languidly, pinpoint the grieving man's pale, shadowed face. Can those cloudy eyes see his heartbreak? Can that mind comprehend such a thing?

"Please," he whispers as he runs a hand along a stubble-lined jaw.

"Please?" the other man's mouth re-shapes the word tentatively.

There are tears trembling on his eyelashes. They shake loose, drop. He cannot smile, cannot rejoice that the man is awake. (It's worse when he's awake.)

He leans over, watching those eyes track his movements—unfocused, empty—and calls softly, "Bones, come back."

That familiar voice rumbles, says, "I am here."

He removes his hand slowly from the other, defeated. "Won't you let him go?" A slow smile answers, ugly and wrong on that beloved face.

"No, I won't."

Jim chokes back his pain. Anger burned itself out long ago. Hope too. (How he wanted to hope!) He rises from the bed and steps back… and walks away as his heart breaks to pieces.

M'Benga is waiting, tools in hand. Christine Chapel is absent. So is Spock. Jim knows that he'll never forget this moment as long as he lives, that it—and his responsibility—will haunt him for the rest of his life. Geoff is watching him, eyes sympathetic and equally pained.

James T. Kirk won't be alone in this guilt.

He does not turn around for a last look at his Bones, at the body that belongs to Doctor Leonard McCoy but whose heart and soul are gone. Devoured.

"You have your orders." The words ring hollow.

M'Benga swallows and drops his head. The Captain averts his eyes.

"Yes, Sir."

Jim stays as witness. He'd rather run, run so far and long until he is too exhausted to recall his own name. But he cannot because he owes Bones this much; and he loves the man enough to not let him die alone (even though Leonard is already gone).

The end is painless, granted by this century's medical advancements. As the last monitor goes flat, indicating a void of life, Jim sways on his feet and grips the bed railing to regain control of himself. If a moan of grief breaks free, no one will think unkindly of him.

M'Benga is talking. "Time of death—"

Jim isn't listening. His legs bear him no more. As his body sinks to the floor, he thinks only of this moment and beyond, recognizing that from now until he dies…

…there shall be no Bones.

* * *

><p><strong>IV.<strong>

**Fandom**: Star Trek TOS or AOS  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Kirk, McCoy

"If you go to the Bridge," Bones tells him, "Spock will personally escort you back to your quarters."

"Are you mutinying against me with my First Officer?"

"Damn hobgoblin and I both have the same clause in our contract; something about 'preserving the Captain of the ship,'" Jim is reminded dryly. "Now go on."

He is given a gentle shove out the door.

Jim lingers in the corridor for a moment; his blue eyes are remarkably warm. Then the man retreats to his quarters as ordered.


	5. Of Perky Starfleet Bottoms

**Title**: Of Perky Starfleet Bottoms (#5, The Drabble Bin)  
><strong>Author<strong>: klmeri  
><strong>Fandom<strong>: Star Trek AOS  
><strong>Characters<strong>: The Chair  
><strong>Summary<strong>: A look into the life of a certain lecherous chair. Senseless crack.

* * *

><p>The chair makes itself comfortable for every hot tush that nestles into its wide lap. For those less-than-stellar bums, however, it is an agonizing experience of painful springs and lumpy padding. A certain nameless Lieutenant once sat in the chair when he thought no one was paying attention (whether on a dare or simply to test its prestige for himself, no one knows) and paid the price with unexpected hemorrhoids and back ailments for two weeks. To this day, he shies away from the chair like it's taunting him to come back and try again.<p>

While the chair is glad to be of service to many, it also harbors a severe prejudice against non-loungers: in particular, against one non-lounger of the Vulcan variety that treats the chair solely as an instrument of necessity and not as the awe-inspiring throne or fun plaything it can be. The chair has, on several occasions, attempted to dump said Vulcan onto the Bridge floor, albeit rather stealthily, in the middle of a ship attack (or that one time during a repair phase), but the Vulcan has the bad habit of clinging like a tenacious burr. Therefore, in retaliation, the button-array built into the chair's arm often malfunctions or seems, in general, defective when used by the First Officer, much to his befuddlement.

But enough of the travesties of its life. There is joy too.

Of all the perky Starfleet bottoms available, there are two in particular the chair adores. First is the Captain's, whose person, privileged by title alone, belongs solely to the chair. There is hardly anything more titillating than James T. Kirk parking his cute, uniformed-clad butt in the chair, where he undoubtedly feels like he is graciously and lovingly being welcomed home. Kirk may even ponder if the manufacturing company accidentally installed a heating system into the mechanism of his chair, though its schematics say nothing descriptive pertaining to "seat-warmer for delectably young captains". Despite this strange mystery of too-cozy starship furniture, Jim appears so pleased he stays relaxingly sprawled in the chair for long periods of time, and the chair's purpose (to enjoy the subtle slip-slide caress of its occupant) couldn't be better-served.

Then there is Doctor McCoy, the man who is known ship-wide for having the most gorgeous backside in all quadrants of the galaxy. To say the chair wants the doctor in any position possible (leg over the side or cradled like a napping baby or, hell, even backwards) would be an understatement. Yet much to its disappointment, McCoy only occasionally visits the chair; but when this rare and wonderful event does occur, he unknowingly satisfies every dirty fantasy the chair has conjured and desperately survived by up to that point, for there is _nothing _prim or proper about Doctor McCoy's style of sitting down. If the chair was sentient (well, more sentient than it is at its current level of appreciating fine posteriors), it would gladly make certain the doctor has every incentive to stay seated for eternity. Alas, when McCoy leaves (abrupt abandonment, per usual), it curses the man as the worst of teases.

There is, of course, an epitome of "best chair experience ever": this has yet to happen but the chair remains optimistic. It is not designed, surface area-wise, to accommodate two people at once, but it firmly believes Kirk's ingenuity, coupled with the sheer magnitude of McCoy's attractiveness, will override the limitations of physics and allow for the most fortunate of circumstances. It looks forward to this day while, in the meantime, enjoying the two men separately with careful patience. But if it goes crazy once in a while from the lack of Kirk-McCoy double-action (spinning in a mad circle, thereby flinging the trespassing Vulcan back to his science station), well, who could blame it? There would be nothing so fine as _two_ lovely asses in a very experienced, very willing Captain's chair.


	6. An Hour Past

**Title**: An Hour Past (#6, The Drabble Bin)  
><strong>Author<strong>: klmeri  
><strong>Fandom<strong>: Star Trek TOS or AOS  
><strong>Characters<strong>: McCoy  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Written during wordwars at **jim_and_bones**; born of boredom and the recollection of what it was to be a child awake at night.  
><strong>Previous Drabbles<strong>: The Old Four | Those Neighborhood Hoodlums | Trapped | A Cage of His Own | Of Perky Starfleet Bottoms

* * *

><p>When an hour past of midnight fell across the house, all was settled into the routine of repose except for a young child who could not succumb to the spell of sleep. Awareness pricked at him endlessly like tiny pins, coaxing him to contemplate the spidery webs of shadow across his window and the gap beneath his closet door from whence nameless night things might come. He tentatively, cautiously, slipped from his bed, crawling past a mountain of garments and mismatched shoes and discarded toys, guided only by the steady beam of a favorite miniature flashlight. As he eased open his door and entered a hallway, his bare feet made muffled, creaking impressions upon the old frame of the house.<p>

Lenny felt safer here, less afraid of this place he scampered up and down in daylight than the eerie unknowns of his bedroom. He listened for the downstairs clock and chewed at the tip of a fingernail to its beats of tick-tock, tick-tock before bravely creeping onwards. In the dark, doors were indistinguishable but he still knew them. A bathroom door. Mother and Father's door. Clutter-closet's door. His hand was wrapped around the knob belonging to the latter when he was taken by surprise—an unfamiliar sound, a shuffle-thump at the end of the hall cutting into the soft silence. His heart leapt and quickened its pace, like the too-rapid beating of a hummingbird's wings, and from his fingers the flashlight slipped, cracked against the floor and its bulb dimmed as it rolled away. He did not think, only acted with a child's fright, and curled himself into a small groove inside the packed clutter-closet. But its door he did not fully close, fearful the echo of its latch would call attention to his hideaway.

Time still moved but it was slow, slow, clunking past. When the odd sound came again, fresher but more frightening, Lenny tried holding his breath. Beyond the door, the small flashlight cut a thin beam across the faded hall runner. Then a dim, perplexing shape moved into the frail light, never pausing, and drifted past. It was a stranger's ghost. Lenny's limbs felt rigid, his fear spiraling high in little hiccups of breath, until the wispy thing disappeared beyond his field of vision through the cracked door.

He waited, time ever-so-slowly crawling and marked by the thumps of his heart in his chest, until he could no longer remain squatted between old, unused coats and sharp-cornered boxes. He eased from the closet into the empty hall. Lenny then took up his flickering flashlight in one swooping, stumbling motion and scurried quickly for his bedroom door.

It didn't seem so unsafe now, the four moon-washed walls of his room, painted in sporadic, muted colors by his latest drawings. Yet, ensconced though he was under many pillows and sheets, his thoughts bucked sleep rebelliously until his child's body could not hold them in any form. They soon filtered into dreams that floated obediently after a limbless figure in the night. The thing made no noise but it turned, toward the dream child, a discernable faceless hump atop an unmolded block of a body, what—he realized—must be a head. It saw him following behind; and it knew him.

Lenny's dream body could not run as he had once fled in the physical world. He was trapped now, a captive companion to the result of something unexplained which his imagination had wrought into a nightmare. His only release was his terror, culminating into a scream, that brought the boy's parents to his bedside to awaken and console him and, in the end, assure him everything—his night-wandering, the ghostly figure, the fear—had all been naught but an unpleasant dream.

_-Fini_


	7. War of the Bots

**Title**: War of the Bots (#7, The Drabble Bin)  
><strong>Author<strong>: klmeri  
><strong>Fandom<strong>: Star Trek TOS  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Kirk, Spock, McCoy  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Crack!fic, obviously. In which something not-so-good happens to Jim.  
><strong>Previous Drabbles<strong>: The Old Four | Those Neighborhood Hoodlums | Trapped | A Cage of His Own | Of Perky Starfleet Bottoms | An Hour Past

* * *

><p><em>"Oh my good god!" <em>a man dressed in a blue-and-black uniform gasps. His announcement rings with the kind of finality that means he expects any other words would not as poignantly express his horror.

The tall being at his side, also in a blue shirt and black pants, remains unmoved to words. Perhaps this is because he too knows there is little to be said to change whatever fate is about to arise but, unlike his companion, derives no comfort from superfluous exclamations.

One can only guess. Certainly, Zek*sief!l—known to his family of mesobots simply as Zek—has made a quick study of the situation and found the visitors to his planet to be a complex algorithm his programming cannot easily decode. Guessing is the best he can do to understand their behavior. He rolls forward to eavesdrop further upon their conversation, though it is mostly one-sided and consists of the shorter man gesturing wildly with his hands.

The one with better control of his limbs opens a handheld device, splitting it into two halves. _"Enterprise," _he calls.

Zek positions himself just behind a large boulder, an angle where they cannot see him, and stares raptly at the device, for his receptors tell him it is mostly metal: 77.643% metallic alloyd, 19.182% semi-synthetic solid, and a remainder of something elusive Zek cannot yet quantify. All-in-all, a delectable object it is. And it makes a kind of fuzzy noise too.

The device squeaks, _"Mr. Scott here. Have ye found the Capt'n, Commander?"_

_"Affirmative. However, delay the order to beam us aboard the ship, Mr. Scott."_

The tall one surreptitiously puts the device out of range of his companion, for that companion begins to shriek, _"Is that all you can think to say?"_

_"Doctor McCoy, please calm yourself."_

_"Calm? How can you talk about calm when—"_

_"We must think rationally."_

_"Logic cannot explain THIS, Mr. Spock!"_

The device makes muffled, urgent noises at the oblivious, arguing pair.

_"...until we can determine the nature of the Captain's ailment..."_

The shorter man throws up his hands, saying, _"Are you blind or just sadly optimistic? Look at Jim, Spock - HE'S A ROBOT!"_

The device falls silent for three seconds before it comes alive again, jabbering anxiously. The tall being slowly lifts it to chest-level. _"As you have no doubt surmised, Mr. Scott, Captain Kirk is not himself. Therefore we cannot risk returning him to the ship until we have thoroughly examined his condition. Doctor McCoy and I will remain on the surface until such time."_

The other man is muttering to himself and turns to look at a figure moving in a tight circle, making confused whirring sounds. Zek beeps to catch its attention. The figure stops circling to beep back at him, alert and intrigued. They communicate for a minute on a sub-frequency, until Zek is satisfied that this bot does not belong to his clan. It seems unhappy—and un-bot-like, despite its shiny metal shell—and Zek feels a keen sympathy for it.

But then again, there is a sign in front of the Temple for Mesobots, some one or two kilometers away, warning against trespassers. This particular visitor, it seems, did not heed that warning.

The two non-bot visitors are having an intense conversation. Zek, no longer interested in them, focuses on the device, which has retreated into slumber. He thinks about how tasty alloyds are, and how exotic this alloyd would be. Perhaps he isn't careful enough to suppress his projections of hunger because the new bot—the Kirk bot, one of the beings said sarcastically and with a hint of panic—picks up on the signal and suddenly rolls forward to snatch the device from the tall one, who freezes at the contact.

Zek, seeing his snack being taken away, rolls out from behind the outcropping of rock and beeps his discontent and asks if they can share it.

_"There's another one!"_

Kirk-bot, ignoring the request, eats the device with a great grinding crunch. In the background, one of the visitors makes a noise of surprise and alarm and backs away from the Kirk-bot, forcibly tugging the other along with him, who is speaking futilely to the bot.

Well, that was rude, thinks Zek. And he had asked nicely too.

Lifting his weapons arm, he fires at the Kirk-bot, who wheels backward from the blow in a billow of smoke. But apparently it adapts fast, because it fires back at Zek with only a ten-second delay. They quickly engage in a somewhat less-than-friendly battle, turning large chunks of rock into dust and denting each other mercilessly.

Because he is focused on his adversary, who has finally been manuvered into a vulnerable position, Zek does not expect the clunking blow to the back of his metal case. Zek rotates his head around, sees the tall being with a rock in his hand, and beeps in dismay.

_"Desist your attack."_

Zek tries to communicate that it is a matter of honor (and disappointment at the bad etiquette of rogue bots) but the shorter being, standing slightly behind his partner, overrides Zek's clicks-and-clacks with his own noisy speech.

_"Do you see a power switch?"_

_"Negative."_

Zek swivels around to look at the Kirk-bot, stretched out on its back and fruitlessly spinning its wheels. One more blast would have destroyed the bot's defense system.

_"Well, don't stand there, Spock—break its phaser arm or something! It's gonna kill Jim!"_

The tall one gives Zek's metal extenders a considering look. Zek, having just realized he might be in a spot of trouble, opts to put distance between them. After all, he doesn't know anything about these creatures, except that they make manner-less mesobots.

But because pride is pride no matter the automaton species, while rolling past the still pathetically prone Kirk-bot Zek beeps something akin to _I own these parts, don't come around here no more_. He has never appreciated other bots stealing his food.

The Kirk-bot, angry, spins its wheels faster. A laughable challenge, really. Zek, mollified by his obvious victory, is content to leave Kirk to the visitors. They'll figure out what to do with him. And if they don't...

Zek decides to alert his clan to that possibility as well.

_-Fini_


	8. The Best Substitute

**Title**: The Best Substitute (#8, The Drabble Bin)  
><strong>Author<strong>: klmeri  
><strong>Fandom<strong>: Star Trek TOS  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Kirk, Spock, McCoy  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Wherein there has to be a silly drabble about Kirk running late and the cadets who suffer in the meantime.

* * *

><p>"What does boredom buy a person?"<p>

A cadet raises his hand. "More assignments?"

"Or time to nap," another person cuts in, causing a few chuckles.

"Hardly," mutters someone darkly from the back row of the seminar, no doubt bored beyond belief but also unable to enjoy _his _nap.

"Wrong and wrong," the speaker remarks good-naturedly. "Boredom buys the cheapest and most abundant commodity in the universe."

At that, even the irritable thwarted napper straightens a little in his seat to listen. But rather than providing them with the answer, the speaker prompts again, "Now, any thoughts as to what it is?"

A chuckle, from a mature voice, rumbles through the audience's silent contemplation. In the farthest corner of the domed-ceiling room is a person leaning against a wall by a door. He may or may not have been there for some time.

"That's easy," the man to whom the voice belongs says.

The speaker slouches against the podium, folding his arms across its top, and smiles. "Is that so? Well then, sir, tell us: what does boredom buy?"

The response is immediate and full of amused conviction: "Trouble."

The speaker nods and lets his gaze wander over the wide-eyed men and women who have turned in their seats to stare at the newcomer. "That's right—trouble. And who would know more about trouble than the man y'all are gaping at." He straightens, thumps his fist against the podium like he's knocking against a drum, and announces, "Let's give Admiral Kirk a round of applause!" Over the sound of surprised (and very ecstatic) clapping, he drawls, "Admiral, they're all yours," and steps down from his place on center stage.

As Admiral Kirk passes the former speaker, he drops a hand to the man's shoulder and murmurs a thank you.

"Don't mention it," Leonard McCoy replies. "But next time you're gonna be late, Jim, and need somebody to entertain a bunch of bright-eyed hooligans...? Call Spock. I'm a doctor, not a tap dancer."

The podium microphone captures the sound of Jim's laughter and fills every corner of the room with it. An echo of that laughter stays with McCoy as he escapes the auditorium, keeping a grin on the man's face all the way back to his office in Starfleet Medical.

* * *

><p>The speaker is precise, clearly knowledgeable, and tireless: "And what I believe is that essentially the same phenomenon operates in almost every area of mathematics. Just like in multiway systems, one can always add axioms to make it easier to prove particular theorems. But I suspect that ultimately there is almost always computational irreducibility, and this makes it essentially inevitable that there will be short theorems that only allow long proofs."<p>

A whimper, and a hiccup of despair.

"In the previous section we saw that computational irreducibility tends to make infinite questions undecidable. So for example the question of whether a particular string will ever be generated in the evolution of a multiway system—regardless of how long one waits—is in general undecidable. And similarly it can be undecidable whether..."

Cadets shift restlessly in their seats. In the third row from the front, someone has fallen over. His peers on either side of him are wondering if he's dead. But if they look at him for too long (or attempt to prod him in various soft, fleshy spots) the speaker's drone takes on a sharp note of _I know you are not paying attention_. So they quickly return to staring numbly at a spot just over the speaker's shoulder and wishing for a swift mercy of some kind.

That mercy comes in the form of someone entering noisily through the back door of the auditorium, causing the speaker's dry monologue to suddenly halt. Huffing and just slightly red-faced with exertion from a run, the newcomer apologizes, "Sorry, sorry!" He regains his composure and strides for the podium. "Ah... Thank you for minding the store, Mr. Spock." The words are brisk yet spoken warmly.

"Admiral," the Vulcan greets in return. He moves away from the podium, whereupon there is a collective almost-sigh from his captive audience.

Jim's eyes skate over the glazed eyes of the young people in the room (only pausing momentarily with a touch of concern upon the body of the one cadet who has seemingly expired) and he lifts his brows at his former XO.

Spock's bland look meets Jim's. "I see you were able to join us, Admiral." He glances at the audience. "If any of you wish to hear the remainder of my discourse, I welcome the interest. My contact information is in the campus directory."

Jim grins. "What a perfect idea for extra credit, Mr. Spock!" _For torture, _he really means. It appears, by the panic on some of his students' faces, they understand Kirk's intentions well enough.

The Vulcan merely nods, locks his hands behind his back, and heads for the steps of the stage. He has not gotten far when Kirk calls, albeit in a hushed undertone, "Spock! What was the lecture about?"

Spock quirks his eyebrow. "I was not lecturing, Admiral. I was reciting, passage by passage, from an old text—Wolfram's _A New Kind of Science_, published at the turn of the twenty-first century."

Jim stares at him for a long moment before understanding dawns. Then a slow grin spreads across the man's face.

"It was an effective method," the Vulcan confirms, "to engender anticipation for your return."

"And Bones says Vulcans don't have a sense of humor!"

"May I remind you, Jim, Doctor McCoy has never claimed to be an expert on the subject of Vulcans."

And with that, Spock leaves the near-to-weeping cadets to Kirk. The consensus among them is, undoubtedly, the best substitute is no substitute at all.

_-Fini_

* * *

><p><strong>Footnote<strong>: Spock was quoting from _A New Kind of Science_ (which I own, haha) and was in fact on page 779 when Kirk showed up. ...Those poor cadets!


	9. Surprise Meeting

**Title**: Surprise Meeting (#9, The Drabble Bin)  
><strong>Author<strong>: klmeri  
><strong>Fandom<strong>: Star Trek AOS  
><strong>Pairing<strong>: Kirk/McCoy  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Leonard has an encounter with someone he didn't anticipate seeing again.

* * *

><p>"Miss me?"<p>

Leonard stops walking and turns at the sultry question, accidentally jostling the papers in his arms. He has a few seconds of abject fear while he hastily shifts the slippery bundle to a less precarious position, afraid every last one of them will spill onto the floor. His response, therefore, is not as pleasant as might have otherwise been expected of him. "Mother_fuck!_"

Another set of hands is quick to help, scooping up a few fly-away papers and tucking them safely into the stack again for Leonard. Then the helper steps back, his expression both guilty and sheepish. "Hey, sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

Leonard's eyes snap up to meet guileless blue eyes. His heart jerks hard in his chest. "Jim?"

Jim smiles. "You remembered my name."

Leonard's arms have gone momentarily slack in his shock. The tower of papers tilts again. Jim steadies it without a word.

"I, uh—" What to say to a guy Leonard never thought he would see again... and in particular to a person he'd slept with on a whim? He feels his face grow hot as he flounders to respond like a suave human being. No, suave is beyond Leonard even at his best and brightest. He should try for some more mundane, like intelligible.

Instead, his brain fails him completely, and Leonard makes a stuttered noise. Jim's smile deepens, showcasing a dimple on one side. Leonard has a vivid recollection of that mouth and what it can do, and has no doubt he is acutely tomato-red.

"McCoy!" someone barks farther along the hall. It's Leonard's supervisor, already dressed in faded medical scrubs, poking his head out of the staff lounge. "Get over here!"

"Leonard... McCoy," murmurs Jim.

They hadn't traded last names in the bar or after in bed. Leonard was Leonard—or Bones, a weird nickname a plastered Jim had given his newfound stranger-friend following a brief one-sided rant from Leonard about how terrible his divorce had been. Together, the two men had stumbled somewhere less than reputable, to a motel, and entertained each other for the rest of the night. Leonard remembers waking up the next morning alone; he had spent the better part of an hour puking into a toilet and suffering through the mother of all hangovers. Jim had, surprisingly, paid the motel bill before he had snuck out while Leonard was wrapped up in blissful sleep.

Which reminds Leonard... "I owe you for the, um, room," he says.

Jim makes an aborted gesture, a little bit of a blush creeping across of his face. "Forget about it," he replies.

Leonard will happily go along with that request, if only because arguing about who pays for a one-night stand in the middle a hospital hallway is beyond awkward. In fact, McCoy clears his throat, just lightly, and tips his head in the direction of the lounge. "Nice... to see you again, Jim," he murmurs, voice dropping low as two nurses pass by in conversation. "I should get going."

Oh, damn. The kid shouldn't look so crestfallen. It's not like—

Well, maybe it _is _more to Jim than Leonard. He hadn't considered that.

Leonard asks politely, "Do you need directions?"

Jim opens his mouth, only to immediate close it again.

"I suppose," Leonard guesses, "you aren't sick?"

The corner of the other man's mouth twitches. "It's not an illness a doctor can cure."

Leonard thinks he is missing the underlying meaning to that, not just the context, so he lets the comment slide past with a shrug of his shoulders. The supervisor—and, boy, can he yell like a foghorn, Leonard thinks—sticks his head into the hallway again, this time sounding much more than mildly irritated at his subordinate's delay. "McCoy, stop dawdling! I need you in here, stat!"

"Asshole," Leonard mutters under his breath, tottering down the hall with his heavy load of files.

"Hey—hey, Bones!" a voice says at his back.

He'd briefly forgotten about Jim. Leonard pauses, waits.

Jim gives him an imploring look, stance resolute but face uncertain. "Will we see each other again?"

"I..." The paper tower wobbles and Leonard lifts it slightly so he can stick his chin on top of it in an attempt to stabilize its swaying. "Okay!" he calls back, because the answer is the easy way out and if he doesn't get this stuff inside that lounge in the next five seconds, the hallway is going to be decorated in a loose-leaf motif for the holiday season.

Grinning widely, Jim announces, "I'll come back tonight!" Then he spins on his heel and takes off in the opposite direction.

Leonard blinks, not quite sure of what just happened. He too then proceeds to go on about his day.


	10. Little Help

**Title**: Little Help (#10, The Drabble Bin)  
><strong>Author<strong>: klmeri  
><strong>Fandom<strong>: Star Trek TOS  
><strong>Characters<strong>: McCoy, Spock  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Coda to _The Paradise Syndrome_. I always felt bad for Kirk at the end of this episode and knew Spock and McCoy would too.  
><strong>AN**: I'm having one of those days where I am overwhelmed by fandoms that make me cry, and that isn't always okay. Here, have some tears.

* * *

><p>"<em>I don't know what I can do.<em>"

The words came from a shadowed corner to greet the silhouette of a tall man backlit by a bright silvery corridor. That silhouette stepped forward and released the door from its patient hold, letting darkness once again consume the details of the observatory. Footfalls soft, he ventured to the wide, window-paned wall and observed the glittering starlight and how, tonight, it seemed out of reach. Shortly a presence joined him, the owner of the quiet confession that had drawn him into the room.

"You should rest," he told the stoop-shouldered figure at his side.

The eyes watching him in the dark seemed at once luminous and duller than they should be. His feelings compounded until he could barely sort through them and watched with helplessness as they mixed and muddied so that tucking them away would be a tiring feat. It was a symptom that he was not at the peak of health himself, the long days with little reprieve from enforced awareness having taken their toll both on his body and the mental stability he required for control.

He knew he must sleep also, that it was imperative, but could not shake his restlessness—or the slippery, ugly thing called guilt. In this, Spock suspected, he and Dr. Leonard McCoy were alike. If he could bear the burden alone, he would.

"Doctor, the hour is late. Allow me to escort you to your quarters."

This seemed like the proper thing to say. He had come here with the intention of explaining to the human that it was in his best interest to rest when he could. One of them needed to be alert, and while he was not at the point that his exhaustion would physically impair him, he needed the assurance that there was one officer aboard who would see the starship and her captain safely to their starbase destination for new outfitting and personnel recuperation. Some time ago, it would have surprised him that he considered McCoy to be the person he trusted with the duties that mattered most to him but, given in particular the past month they had spent in command on the Enterprise, Spock simply knew it to be so.

However, he saw that the human was not ready to listen. McCoy's attention had turned to the viewing pane, and the light from the visible celestial bodies cast the man's face into stark relief, deepening the hollows under his eyes and bringing forth lines of age and sadness.

Spock stayed quiet, for as the doctor had said earlier knowing what to do was beyond them both. In the back of his mind, he acknowledged it was a small solace not to alone have this fault.

Minutes passed. He did not count them. Eventually McCoy spoke.

"You would think, as advanced as our species claim to be, we would be beyond this by now. Having our hearts broken," the doctor clarified when Spock kept his silence.

"It is a condition that cannot be avoided."

McCoy sighed softly through his nose. "Don't you mean a human condition, Spock?"

"No," Spock said simply, watching the same pattern of stars as McCoy.

McCoy lowered his head slowly. Spock kept his gaze fixed ahead, allowing the doctor privacy for his tears.

"I don't know how to help him," the human said, voice tired, thick, wavering with emotion.

"Nor do I," confessed the Vulcan. "But I can," he added gently, "walk you back to your quarters. Come."

It was not that the doctor was so easily coaxed, Spock understood, but that McCoy knew this was a request from someone who felt as powerless in the face of Kirk's grief as he did and needed to lend help where it could be accepted, if only in a small, indirect way. So they left the observatory together, McCoy trailing at Spock's shoulder, both men hoping in their hearts that tomorrow was the day they figured out how to comfort a mutual friend.

_-Fini_


	11. Dreaming

**Title**: Dreaming (#11, The Drabble Bin)  
><strong>Author<strong>: klmeri  
><strong>Fandom<strong>: Star Trek AOS  
><strong>Character<strong>: Joanna  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Comment!fic based on a pic prompt at **jim_and_bones** and **norfolkdumpling**'s remark about an apocalyptic vibe.

* * *

><p>The summer season had turned to winter since the clouds of dust and debris took over the sky. Joanna knew the sun still existed and their little planet continued to orbit it but, being unable to see or feel anything beyond darkness and cold, she often imagined the rest of the universe had lost its light right along with them.<p>

But that was a silly girl's thinking, an inner voice would say afterwards. Space and all of the life in it had moved on. Only they were stuck behind this veil, as if the planet had been exiled for its folly.

When her father came home with the night's dinner, she said, "Why can't we leave this place?"

"Where would we go, poppet?" he asked in return, peeling off two scarves and the patchwork overcoat she had sewn for him from the fabric materials they had bartered for weeks ago. His face and hands were reddened and dry from his excursion. So were hers, despite that she had stayed behind. Most days, her skin felt as though it would split apart like old leather; at the joints and around the soft tissue of her mouth sometimes it did.

"Away," she said. "To the stars."

His shoulders sagged like always when she spoke of escape. Wordlessly, he opened the flap of his satchel and laid a package of frozen meat on the small table between them. At least they could still make fire to cook with, though some people thought it was too dangerous because the smoke had nowhere to go. The atmosphere is ruined already, they said. One day we will have sucked up all the oxygen and will drown standing up.

That's foolish talk, her father had told her. Just bitter people being bitter. Bitterness didn't help them survive any better than hope.

Secretly she thought they were right. In school, an experience which now felt like it was make-believe, she had learned that plants made the oxygen for them to breathe. The trees and flowers were dying everywhere she looked, falling to rot at the wayside of the rest of the carnage that had been a civilization in its prime. Someday, even if it was a long, long time from now, no one would be able to live on Earth. It would be like the moon or Mars or the vacuum of space itself.

No one would want to come here at all.

As if her father could sense her thoughts, he said sharply, "Light the kindling."

She did, carefully watching for stray sparks. What little they had they couldn't afford to lose. A burning building might warm their very bones and light up the world so she could see all of the little details she'd forgotten but the aftermath would be just as devastating as the day the bombs took their house.

"...and Grandma's farm and the park and the gas stations and Daddy's hospital," she murmured under her breath. It was a game she played, trying to remember all of the places that she could. Her dreams were vivid enough that she could hear the crinkle of a candy bar wrapper and feel the seat of a car under her hands. Sometimes she thought she smelled things too, like the detergent her father used to buy or the heavy perfume of the next door neighbor who often babysat Joanna after school. She remembered the way the old lady scolded, "Little girls shouldn't spoil their appetites before dinner."

The taste had gone out of the world, though. It was all grey ash and cardboard to her tongue. That was the chemicals of the bombs, her father said. They were invisible but seeped into everything. Spoiled everything.

As the meat cooked in the little pan they'd salvaged from somewhere (Joanna couldn't even remember all the places they've walked, the broken things she has seen), her father sat next to her and tucked her close to his side. It was important to share body heat when it was so cold, she understood that, but really Joanna just liked knowing he was there. She turned her face into the rough fabric of the jacket he always had on, the one he had been wearing the day the sun shone for the last time. A hand stroked her hair.

"Can't we go away?" she asked again, plaintively.

"I wish so, Jo," he said.

She waited for the rest.

"But there are no more stars." His voice was sad.

For a lot of people, Joanna knew, the darkness took away more than colors, brightness, and the warmth they were used to. It stole the ability to dream. She hugged her father more tightly and promised herself she would dream for the both of them, no matter how difficult that kind of dreaming became.

_-Fini_


	12. The Tower

**Title**: The Tower (#12, The Drabble Bin)  
><strong>Author<strong>: klmeri  
><strong>Fandom<strong>: Star Trek AOS, Star Trek Into Darkness  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Kirk  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Jim meets an old friend who understands him all too well.

* * *

><p>Jim saw the tower at the edge of the cliff. It looked harmless enough, its old stones dreaming under the fading sun. He went to stand beside it and watched birds white as foam soar and dive into the waves. Below the cliff seals lay scattered, contented to warm their dark, spotted bellies on the sand until the light was gone.<p>

A feeling came to him; he imagined it emanated from the world itself. There was peace to be found here if he chose to stay. He wondered if he should.

His heart wavered, and the apparition came.

Jim named it, too cocooned by the tranquil atmosphere to be shocked. "Gary."

"Hello, Jim."

Gary Mitchell, three years dead, stepped out of the tower's shadow. He lifted his face to the sun. The wind playfully tossed his earth-brown hair.

"How long has it been?"

"Since Delta Vega," Jim reminded him.

"A long time, then. Another lifetime. I had wondered if I was dreaming when I found myself here." Gary turned clear eyes to his old friend. "But you're here too."

"You want to know why," Jim guessed, watching the sky change colors at the horizon. "I don't have that answer."

"Did you die, like me?"

Jim started to shake his head but stopped. "I have, actually. Did. But then I lived again. That's not it."

"Are you sure?"

Jim was. "Yes."

"Oh," Gary said. "I guess I can't expect you to know why I'm here then."

"Don't you?"

Gary slid his palm across the rough stone wall. "As a lingering guilt, I suppose. You know, you should have let me go, Jim. All these years... what have I gained you?"

"There is no gain, Gary. You're just the memory of a price I paid. I thought being a captain meant I had the power to save everyone. I couldn't save you. I wanted to, but I couldn't."

"The universe doesn't work that way."

"No," Jim agreed, "it doesn't. It's the ficklest friend a man will ever have. Gary, do you think you could...?"

"Leave?"

"Just for now." He closed his eyes. "I want to enjoy this while I can."

He heard the sound of the sea. He heard the birds cry and the wind as it rushed along the rocks. Gary was gone, because they had been friends before they had been enemies and that mattered most. Memories weren't always burdens. Sometimes, like this one, they could be kind.

Jim took a step from the tower to the edge of the cliff. Then lifting his arms, he dreamed he could fly, and did.

_-Fini_


	13. Brother

**Title**: Brother (The Drabble Bin, #13)  
><strong>Author<strong>: klmeri  
><strong>Fandom<strong>: Star Trek AOS, Into Darkness  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Kirk  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: mentions of genocide, starvation, character death  
><strong>Summary<strong>: When Jim's in trouble, is he ever alone? Slightly AUish.

* * *

><p>Jim doesn't have an imaginary friend. He has a brother.<p>

Brother ran away when Jim was four. Days later, he came back dead. He hasn't left since.

They don't always get along, Jim and Brother, but Jim is glad to have someone with him—especially now, when Brother is all the family he has left.

"You might die like me," Brother says, hunched over and picking at the tattered hem of his jeans. Even dead, Brother grows like Jim. His muddy clothes seem to grow with him.

Despite how weak he is, Jim shakes his head in denial. "Can't," he argues.

"It's not so bad."

"Can't," insists Jim again. He swallows and rolls to his side. The dull ache becomes fresh pain, although the wound doesn't reopen. One of Kodos' soldiers had nearly gotten him. In fighting back so he could escape, he thinks he might have killed the man.

Brother watches him, expression bland. "You won't save them all."

Jim pushes to his knees, then his feet. He hears the whimpering from the other, younger children inside the network of caves. They don't enjoy the dark any more than he does, but they know why they have to hide. Two of them died yesterday, having not eaten in so long they had no strength to chew the tiny bits of food for which Jim was almost killed.

He couldn't see those kids after death the way he can see Brother. That makes him wonder just how special Brother is.

Jim creaks along to the entrance of his small cave, feeling as old as his grandfather Tiberius. He thinks his body is changing into someone else's, someone with less muscle and more bone. There are caverns under his cheekbones and around his eyes, making them look deep-set; his thinning hair, once a burnished gold, is limp with sweat.

"You're dying," Brother tells him.

"I know," Jim replies.

"It's not so bad, really."

Jim stops just at the entrance and braces himself against the rock wall. He looks back over his shoulder at the huddle of rags who is his constant companion and accuses, "You want me to die, don't you?"

Brother ducks his head.

"I won't," Jim insists. "I won't ever."

Brother shrugs, flicks an invisible finger at a rock, and concedes, "Maybe."

* * *

><p>The ship isn't like anything Jim has seen before. It's an enormous honeycomb inside, with ledges instead of walkways and a long, long way to fall between them.<p>

As Jim hangs doggedly onto the edge of a black metal platform, having nearly jumped short of it, there is a whisper in his ear: "Don't look down."

"Shut. Up." Jim grinds this out from between clenched teeth as he heaves himself up and over to safety.

Not long after that, a Romulan has him by the neck and holds him aloft so his feet kick at the air. Jim informs the bastard, "I've got your gun," and proceeds to shoot him.

When Jim is on his knees, safe again, gasping for air, the whisper becomes, "Close one."

"Shut up," Jim tells Brother for what feels like the umpteenth time. He adds stubbornly, "I can do this."

"You always think you can," Brother replies.

* * *

><p>Space is danger. Darkness and disease. Bones said something like that once, Jim thinks. Mostly Jim had hoped to prove the man wrong. He is good at beating the odds.<p>

But it only takes once for the odds to win out against him.

Brother is specter-thin in his filthy t-shirt and ratty jeans. He should be thirty but looks older. He looks sad, too. Yet Jim hardly notices him hovering in the periphery of his vision, a mirror image scaling the warpcore at a similar pace.

It's difficult not to hear him, though.

Brother is saying, "After everything... I thought you wanted to live."

Jim ignores that and keeps moving upward. His body feels strange, detached from reality even as he bangs his knees against the machinery. The radiation poisoning must be accumulating too fast. But he is almost within reach of the center of the chamber. He can't stop now. Too many lives depend on it, on _him_. This is the only way to fix his terrible mistake.

"Jim?" Brother tries again. "Jim, please."

"I know," Jim says, "but I have to." There is a stinging in his eyes—fumes or a tear.

"You will die this time."

"It's okay."

And it will be okay, Jim convinces himself. He is afraid but he isn't alone. Never has been.

Swallowing hard, he grips the piping overhead, preparing to swing and kick and force this son-of-a-bitch core to work again. Jim closes his eyes just briefly and, white-knuckled, admits, "Love you. Thanks for waiting."

Brother appears beside him and grips the piping too. "Same," he echoes.

They deliver the first kick to the warpcore together.

_-Fini_


	14. It's Complicated

**Title**: It's Complicated (#14, The Drabble Bin)  
><strong>Author<strong>: klmeri  
><strong>Fandom<strong>: Star Trek TOS  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Kirk, Spock, McCoy  
><strong>Summary<strong>: The ending to TOS. Gen.  
><strong>AN**: Have some sad McSpirk on my birthday.

* * *

><p>Good things come to an end, and bad things too. In other words, all things end.<p>

On the day James T. Kirk signs his name to a contract to officially accept his promotion, he reminds himself that what he is leaving behind is not family, friends, and a ship. It is just a title, easily replaced by a better one.

When the news breaks, the crew shows Jim how proud they are of him. They shake his hand and slap his back; they even salute him. Yet for a moment he finds himself straining to hear something beyond the congratulations.

What is Jim Kirk listening for? Distress? Dismay? Regret?

He does not know.

There is no one around him who asks if he has to go. No one conjectures if the man should fit the rank, or if the rank should fit the man—and Jim himself has given no thought to that question.

In truth, there is no reason not to be glad for the fruition of years of hard work, and so Jim increasingly feels good. He joins the celebration.

* * *

><p>Leonard McCoy, skilled surgeon and Chief Medical Officer of the USS Enterprise, leans across the desk to hand the Enterprise's First Officer a data padd, accompanied by the casual remark "He's leaving us, you know."<p>

"You make that fact sound personal, Doctor."

"Isn't it?" counters the human, dropping his hand and flattening his palm on the desk, the ring on his smallest finger clicking loudly against its surface as he does so.

Spock lifts his gaze from the padd, something reflected in his eyes which belies his impersonal tone. "The opportunity is a remarkable one for the Captain."

"I know." Leonard sighs, then, the sound quieter than he intends it to be. He looks away. "I hate it too. But what can we say?"

"Congratulations."

Leonard echoes, "Congratulations." His fingers momentarily twitch against the desk before he tucks his hand out of sight and returns his gaze to Spock's. "I guess it's just the two of us now."

His Vulcan friend neither confirms nor denies it.

* * *

><p>The day before the Enterprise docks and is officially relieved of her mission, a med tech hears from a friend in Science that Mr. Spock has placed a request with the Command board for sabbatical leave. Why or where the Vulcan intends to go, or for how long, is anyone's guess.<p>

Eventually the news reaches Leonard, who pours himself a single shot of a malt liquor and toasts his empty office with "And then there was one."

Because he is just an old country doctor, he takes a moment to swipe at his aching eyes before pulling up the first round of paperwork to retire his commission.

* * *

><p>"Does anyone know why?" a young man asks.<p>

"Why?" the woman next to him says, sounding incredulous. "Well, it's obvious!"

"Not to us!" two others exclaim.

She crooks her finger, and her audience leans in.

"They don't love each other" is her answer. "Yes, as friends, of course they do... but not as family. Don't you think if they understood they are all each other has, they would not have parted ways so easily?"

Cries are heard all around:

_"But that's awful!"_

_"How could they not know?"_

_"Ludicrous! I can't believe they didn't even say goodbye!"_

The woman crosses her arms and shakes her head slowly. "You asked for the truth, and I've given it to you."

But then she smiles. "Now ask me what comes next."

And once again, her audience leans forward, wanting to know.

_-Fini_


	15. With Close Friends

**Title**: With Close Friends (#15, The Drabble Bin)  
><strong>Author<strong>: klmeri  
><strong>Fandom<strong>: Star Trek TOS  
><strong>Pairing<strong>: pre-Kirk/Spock/McCoy  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Written based on an anonymous prompt submitted to my tumblr: _Imagine Bones recovering from a hard week and taking an uncharacteristic nap in the middle of the day while Jim & Spock play chess and watch over him._  
><strong>AN**: Anon, you started by saying 'imagine' and I did. The scene was too good not to jot down. Thank you!

* * *

><p>They think he has fallen into a deep sleep and has no sense of what is happening around him, but Leonard knows different. He knows in a way that makes him feel as if the universe has finally offered him a gift for all of his sacrifices. It's in a form that he didn't quite expect, but his heart is glad nonetheless. He needs these men—to look after, to lean on, and to simply exist alongside.<p>

There is an old saying: when it rains, it pours. This past week has certainly seen a deluge, with Leonard caught in the center of it. He has never once shirked his duties but even the strongest man (including a half-Vulcan) would have felt his limitations after the grueling pace of a viral outbreak among two-thirds of the ship's crew. The fast-acting virus has been as merciless on the doctors as the patients, but Leonard's staff is known to be some of the hardiest medical officers in the galaxy. They had forsaken sleep and regular meals; they had slaved over lab results and researched treatments until their eyesight became blurry; they had tended the ill and absorbed longer shifts and extra duties without complaint. It was akin to wartime, and every capable hand was needed. They survived it. Thankfully, not one crewman was lost.

Leonard is a realist: he is not of the strongest variety of men, and he has long since known what his physical limits are. Like most doctors, he has been pushed to the brink and beyond several times during his career, enough to be aware of when to react wisely and conservatively in order to endure a triage. Yet he never does, citing that he should not have expectations of others that he himself is not willing to perform to.

And so it is that personal code of Leonard's which has landed him here, stretched out on the couch in the captain's quarters, aching to sleep but so strained by exhaustion that his brain has forgotten how to turn itself off.

At least he has a distraction, something to calm his thoughts and remind him why he needs to remain very still, pretending to be unaware of the quiet clink of chessboard pieces and the soft, steady breaths of the other occupants of the cabin.

Jim will certainly not appreciate his half-delirious senior medical officer jumping up to pace the room. It is bad enough, decides Leonard, that he practically collapsed into the captain's arms after being summoned like a wayward child to hear a lecture on 'taking care of oneself during a time of crisis' (and to believe—Jim had had the audacity to use the same speech Leonard had once delivered to him!).

Or maybe it was into Spock's arms that he fell?

Sadly that moment is not quite clear to Leonard. He thinks he did barely manage to stay on his feet, which is the only saving grace to an otherwise embarrassing situation.

They tucked him in. Maybe that's more embarrassing. Leonard is not sure.

He snorts quietly into his blanket.

For a long moment, no other sounds are heard in the room. Leonard fears he has given himself away when, finally, he hears Jim call quietly, very tentatively into the silence, "Bones?"

Leonard doesn't dare hold his breath because Spock with his sharp Vulcan hearing will notice that.

It is Spock who, surprising Leonard, deflects the possible discovery with the reminder, "It is your move, Captain."

Jim seems to accept this diversion amicably, and the clinking of chess pieces starts up again.

The tension in Leonard ebbs away, then, allowing his mind to relax. It is easier with his eyes closed to picture the ongoing game: Jim, seated, with his legs crossed at the knee, and Spock sitting directly across from him in his typical straight-backed fashion, his elbows on the table and fingers steepled in contemplation. Both pairs of eyes will be bright with intelligence and a hint of cunning yet will remain soft at the corners, a tell-tale sign of the warm friendship that exists between them. They will be content to play chess, and they will speak less without Leonard to prod along their conversation.

Despite his eyes being closed, Leonard's eyelids grow heavy with a similar contentment. Fondness, which always seems to be lurking near to hand in the presence of Jim and Spock, makes the blanket feel cozy. His breathing deepens. Gradually his thoughts fall out of array, gaining a fuzzy edge.

He cannot be angry. He hardly ever is. Jim wanted to fuss because he was worried. Spock came along, too, as he always does when Jim feels concerned—no, not just Jim. The concern must be mutual. Jim speaks of it, and Spock claims it is logical. They work as a team, those two.

"Ah," comes a murmur to Leonard's ears, "I believe he is resting now."

"I think he's smiling, Spock. Must be a good dream."

"Indeed."

Oh, the silly fools. But they might be right. Leonard is having a good dream. He dreams of hands adjusting his blanket, of voices that speak with undisguised caring, and of arms that never, ever let him fall.

_-Fini_


	16. Not As It Seems

**Title**: Not As It Seems (#16, The Drabble Bin)  
><strong>Author<strong>: klmeri  
><strong>Fandom<strong>: Star Trek AOS  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Kirk  
><strong>Summary<strong>: The Enterprise appointments seem topsy-turvy, and Kirk is momentarily confused.

* * *

><p>"Bones, I need your—Bones?" said the man with a data padd in hand as he entered a familiar room.<p>

"Yes, Captain?"

Jim Kirk looked from the person perched behind the desk to the desk's nameplate and back again. "What you are doing here?" he questioned with some confusion.

Spock lifted an eyebrow as if to say _where else would I be?_ "This is my office, Captain."

Jim's gaze dropped to the nameplate again that proclaimed Spock to be the Chief Medical Officer, and he scratched at the side of his head then shook it as if to clear up any doubts. "Doctor—I mean, Mister—no, that's not right...Commander?" He held up the padd in his hand. "Have you read this report on the _Gibraltar_?"

A speaker beeped on the edge of the desk and Spock answered it with "Spock here."

"Doctor, we need you in Exam Room Three," one of his nurses said.

"On my way," replied the Vulcan, who stood up. To Kirk, he said, "I do not believe that report is related to Medical, Captain. Perhaps the matter would be better discussed with the ship's First Officer."

Jim blinked. "Right," he agreed and started to turn away, only to turn back. "Do you have plans after...?" Abruptly he stopped himself. "Never mind. See you on the Bridge." The man blinked again, looked as though he wanted to comment on something else but shook his head instead.

Spock had blinked too and reluctantly followed the odd remark with "My clearance does not extend to the Bridge, sir."

Jim just gave a nod and left.

* * *

><p>"Captain on the Bridge!" announced the officer manning the Engineering and Security station as Kirk stepped out of the turbolift onto the upper platform and determinedly headed towards his command chair.<p>

The man checked his stride when a voice called from behind him, "Jim!"

Jim turned, placing a hand on the headrest of his chair, and said with relief, "Bones, there you are."

"Where else would I be?" countered Leonard McCoy, who then ran a critical eye over his captain. "You feelin' all right?"

"I've must been sleep-walking," Jim said. "I thought you were in Sickbay."

"I'm not sick."

"I know but... oh, never mind. All I want is to sit down."

Leonard lifted a shoulder in half of a shrug. "No one's stopping you."

Jim huffed and sat down, placing his data padd on the chair's armrest. As he anticipated, Leonard came over to stand beside him. He drummed his fingers against the padd and let silence stretch out between them for a minute. When nothing came of it, he grudgingly asked, "Are you just going to stand there?"

"Come again?"

"Do you have something to report, Bones, or are you just decorating the side of my chair?"

Leonard stared at him. "...My apologies, Captain."

The man quickly returned to the Science station.

Jim massaged his temples and sighed. "Mr. Sulu, set a course to intercept the _Gibraltar_."

The man sitting at the helm pivoted around to look at him in surprise. It was Chekov.

"Mr. Sulu's in Engineering, Keptin," Chekov said.

"What's he doing there?" Jim demanded.

The person sitting next to Chekov—Lieutenant Uhura—turned around as well, then, as did several others on the Bridge.

"Capt'n," questioned Chief Communications Officer Montgomery Scott as he removed his earpiece, "are ye feeling a'right?"

"Apparently," muttered McCoy, who remained hunched over his science controls and occasionally prodded at a button.

Jim looked at the concerned faces around him and drew in a small breath. He said, "I'm fine," and forced himself to believe it.

"Mr. Chekov, lay in the course."

"Aye, Keptin."

It was some time before his officers stopped sneaking glances at him and Jim was able to relax. He didn't know what kind of dream he had had the night before, but he decided it must have been a strange one to affect his perception of reality so thoroughly.

However, dreams mattered little when one was awake.

Jim settled deeper into his chair, crossed his legs, and felt himself return to normal. He picked up the padd on his left and re-activated the screen. The report he wanted to discuss came up.

"Bones," he said, "what's your analysis on the _Gibraltar_ situation?"

McCoy stood up. "Not good, Jim—not good at all. Hell may sooner freeze over before they let us board their ship and confiscate their cargo, legal rights notwithstanding. I hope you're ready for a fight."

Jim smiled despite himself. "I'm always ready for that."

His First harrumphed. "Don't remind me. I knew I made a mistake when I doubled up with a Command track at your behest."

Jim chuckled. "Maybe I made the mistake of appointing you second-in-command."

"Damn straight you did!"

This time they both laughed, and any lingering tension on the Bridge was dispelled.

_-Fini_


	17. Vulcans Can Be Grumpy Too

**Title**: Vulcans Can Be Grumpy Too (#17, The Drabble Bin)  
><strong>Author<strong>: klmeri  
><strong>Fandom<strong>: Star Trek TOS  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Kirk, Spock, McCoy  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Sick Spock. That is all.

* * *

><p>The bickering can be heard from the outer corridor of the med bay per usual, but unlike in the past this bickering seems to be heavily one-sided. It mainly consists of a series of orders, followed by the occasional hoarsely voiced disagreement.<p>

"Just stop would you," insists the doctor in charge. "Like it or not, you're as weak as a puppy, Spock. You're not going anywhere."

"I would recover more quickly in my quarters."

"I don't make house calls."

"Pre—" The word is interrupted by a cough. "—cisely," finishes Mr. Spock.

Leonard McCoy's mouth twitches, though whether from amusement or irritation one cannot tell. "Too bad. You're officially in my care. Jim signed the paperwork this morning."

"I am not—" Cough. "—an object—" The coughing doubles in strength. "—to be passed from owner to owner."

"No, but you're medically unfit for duty and your captain has assigned you some of that leave time you never take." McCoy tugs a blanket back into place that has slipped down Spock's chest. "Listen, Spock. The harder you fight me on this, the longer it will take you to convince me to release you. You do want to get out of Sickbay before we arrive for the Babel Conference, don't you? I heard the Vulcan Ambassador is attending."

The patient appears to have no reply to that.

Leonard loads a hypospray. "This new cocktail seems to be working for you better than the last one. Your coughing fits are subsiding. Do you think you can tolerate a second dose?"

The complaint is a low mutter but the doctor is close enough to hear it:

"Apparently I am left with little choice... it is _my_ recuperation."

That last part is said almost petulantly.

Leonard pats the officer's arm as he depresses the hypospray into his neck. Placing the empty cartridge aside, he declares, "There you go. All better."

Spock slants a look at him that reads _Hardly_.

"If your stomach feels upset, let one of the nurses know."

Again, the Vulcan says nothing.

McCoy crosses his arms. "I have other patients to see to, so I'd better not hear that you're harassing my staff while I'm gone." He starts to leave but pauses to add, "Jim plans to stop by later. Since he's already had this bug, at least you'll have some sympathetic company." One side of his mouth quirks. "Surely you know it's because you visited _him_ when he was bedridden that you got sick. So much for Vulcans having superior immune systems..."

"I believe it is you who are harassing me at present, Doctor. Shall I file a complaint?"

The doctor winks, says, "You do that," and walks away.

An hour later, the Captain of the Enterprise is perched in a chair beside Spock's biobed with a paperbound book in his lap. He remarks, "You look pale, Spock. Isn't Bones treating you?"

Spock replies hoarsely, "I assume the Doctor is performing to the best of his ability, although the effects of his concoctions leave much to be desired."

"Well..." Kirk starts to say, then seems to think better of it. He opens the book. "Where did we leave off?"

"Page 192, with the passage that begins 'Anne laid herself out to decorate in a manner and after a fashion that should leave Mrs. Barry's nowhere.'"

"Ah yes," agrees Jim. "Here we are." He hesitates. "Are you sure I should keep going? I know I can find something that you haven't read."

"Negative, Captain. This suffices."

Jim nods just once and begins to read: "_Anne laid herself out to decorate in a manner and after a fashion that should leave Mrs. Barry's nowhere. Having an abundance of roses and ferns and a very artistic taste of her own, she made that tea table..._"

McCoy returns some time later to find Spock with his eyes closed, expression serene. Jim is smiling faintly at the book in his lap.

Leonard comes to stand beside his friend's chair and drops a hand to his shoulder. "Thank you," he says quietly.

Jim raises his eyebrows. "For what?"

"For putting him to bed. Saved me some trouble."

They share a secret smile.

Spock sleeps on.

_-Fini_

* * *

><p><strong>Footnote<strong>: the passage is from Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery


	18. Upsetting the CMO

**Title**: Upsetting the CMO (#18, The Drabble Bin)  
><strong>Author<strong>: klmeri  
><strong>Fandom<strong>: Star Trek TOS  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Kirk, Spock, McCoy  
><strong>Summary<strong>: McCoy is not happy. Spock has to mediate.

* * *

><p>Spock eyed the irate human carefully then estimated the distance to the door. Following that, he calculated the necessary speed to arrive there before he was caught in the proverbial backlash of said human's exploding temper.<p>

"You're not going anywhere," the doctor snapped, as though it was obvious Spock had every intention of removing himself from the line of fire.

"Stay," Spock's captain countered, never taking his eyes off McCoy.

It was a simple command, one that easily decided Spock's next action.

He turned to the CMO. "Doctor, if you would speak more clearly in your accusation rather than relying on us to interpret your idioms, this matter would resolve itself more quickly."

The human's countenance darkened. "Matters don't resolve themselves, Spock. People do—and Jim's the only one who can fix _this_."

"You might enlighten me as to why."

"Tell your loyal First what you agreed to, Jim."

"Bones."

"Don't _Bones_ me. I have every right to be angry!"

"Bones," Kirk said again, stepping forward, "you need to calm down. It was just a missive. Not an order. Not a demand."

"I will not be calm!" the doctor nearly shouted.

Spock contemplated moving to a safer distance in case the human became irate enough that his arms flailed without regard for the closest bystanders. But, studying McCoy further, he realized the depth of the doctor's anger went far beyond surface annoyance.

McCoy was truly upset—

Spock lowered his mental shield the tiniest fraction.

—and _afraid_.

All at once, his intention to stay out of the confrontation disappeared. Spock addressed his captain in his politest, firmest tone. "Sir, I require an explanation."

Jim momentarily closed his eyes and sighed heavily through his nose. When he focused on his surroundings again, he looked resigned. "Dr. M'Benga could be reassigned to the _Yorktown_."

"...I see," Spock replied at length. Now he knew why Nurse Chapel had called for his immediate presence in Sickbay. It wasn't simply to mediate an argument.

He returned his attention to the doctor. "There is little point in protesting a possibility that has yet to become a fact, Dr. McCoy. In particular, if it is for my sake that you are this... alarmed, then I personally request that you let go of your objections."

Leonard's mouth opened, closed. Then, as if Spock had knocked the fight right out of him, his shoulders sloped downwards.

"It's not fair to you," the man argued in a quieter tone. "Do you want to return to the way it was before M'Benga? Back to my ineptitude? You _need_ him, Spock."

"I would be selfish to require a talented physician to stifle his aspirations based upon my needs." Spock paused. "Have you inquired after his wishes regarding the opportunity?"

McCoy swallowed and said nothing.

Kirk laid a hand on the doctor's arm. "There's time yet. I haven't signed off on the transfer."

"But you will."

"Talk to M'Benga first, Bones. If he wants to stay, then we'll both fight for him."

"Jim..."

"Spock is right, you know."

At that, McCoy deflated completely and pressed his mouth into a thin, miserable line. He shook off the captain's hand and took a long step back. "I'll talk to Geoff."

It was surrender and a dismissal.

Kirk nodded once and, in silence, left the small office.

Spock lingered, acknowledging that he did experience gratification in knowing McCoy had been incensed on his behalf and cared about his well-being. It occurred to Spock, then, that there was something left for him to say.

He waited until Leonard recognized that he had not left alongside their captain. When the doctor started to complain that Spock had no other reason to annoy him, Spock interrupted him with a very solemn "Thank you."

McCoy just looked at him blankly.

Spock added, "With or without M'Benga, I trust that I am in good hands." He turned for the door.

"Spock."

Spock cocked his head. "Yes, Doctor?"

"Thank _you_."

"You are most welcome."

And thus he left, satisfied that his duty had been performed admirably well.

_-Fini_


End file.
